


The Blind Woman

by Vixanator



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2018-12-24 05:46:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12006330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vixanator/pseuds/Vixanator
Summary: To know and be known.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Anika Moa’s song of the same name. 
> 
> _Wouldn’t you die to know how you’re seen_  
>  _Are you getting away with who you’re trying to be?_  
>  Laura Marling, “Wild Fire”

Miranda returned from Paris to an office seemingly no different from that she left. Everyone still scrambled up and around just the same. They buzzed, oblivious. No one had any clue about the attempted coup, its demise, and the fallout. The only indications of the seismic shift that had occurred were Irv’s radio silence, the tightness in Nigel’s shoulders, and the new second assistant sitting outside of her office.

The stagnancy was almost as jarring as if it the changes had wrenched apart her office. She would have been more comfortable with her desk flipped. Chaos unfolded. Her empire ravaged. Then at least she could justify her apprehension, the jolts of panic, the ever-creeping sense of unease. 

Irv’s defeat could not quell her. When he finally faced her, at the shareholder’s meeting, he could not even keep eye contact. She had heard rumblings that he was going to resign. He had made enemies trying to take her on, and even more in failing to do so. Plans of revenge had been ticking over in her mind for weeks even before she had left for Paris. 

Oh of course she had known about the moves against her for quite a long time. Irv had never been subtle. 

Miranda had thought she had seen everything coming that week in Paris. 

She had seen Irv’s disdain for her the moment she had been appointed Editor in Chief at Runway all those years ago. He had been just a lowly executive at the time, but she had still felt the resentment in his handshake and seen the disgust tucked around his eyes. It was nothing to keep tabs on his latest plot to dethrone her.

Even her own husband’s abandonment of her was not unexpected. The months and months of trying to hold together a marriage had to take its toll somewhere. Miranda would never bend no matter how hard she tried. Compromise was not in her nature. It was not in Stephen’s either. 

But Andrea, Andrea had crept up on her and blindsided her. 

She thought she had the girl figured out entirely. She had relied on that seemingly unwavering loyalty, that supposedly dogged determination and work ethic, thought she had met someone with that same streak of ambition running ragged through them. She thought she had someone with her who understood her, and who she understood in turn.

So she was so very very angry when Andrea left her. 

It had crackled through her, red and hot, for the rest of their time in Paris. She had seen the fear and terror in those around her as news spread of the divorce. They had assumed that Andrea had fallen victim to her rage. It was only later that shades of the truth began to blend into the gossip. 

Her rage started to shift and change shape as she returned home. 

What she felt in the first few days back was not anger. It burned bright and pierced sharp but it was not anger. If anything, she felt like she was underwater, everything pressing down on her from all angles. 

She sat in her office, untouched by chaos, and drowned. 

“Here’s the last of the prints, Miranda.” Nigel’s voice was hushed even though they were two of the last people in the office. She had sent Emily home, tired of her staggering around. Miranda stared down at the stack of papers on her desk. The write-ups on the shows, the polaroids from the latest shoot, the accounts, the list of feature writers to contact, any unseen tasks buried further below. The crushing feeling intensified. 

“I thought maybe we could use these for the next shoot.” 

Miranda hummed her agreement. She traced the fingertip down the lines of the Valentino dress, brilliantly scarlet. It had looked sublime on the runway, and even though the photo did not quite capture that radiance, she was still in raptures. It did not jump off the page the same but she could still see it sway in her mind. 

Nigel is still lurking. He has been uneasy around her since they returned. Sometimes he is all spitting fire and flashing eyes. Other times he is guarded and solemn. She ignores these moods. She has no time for sulking. This evening is the reserved Nigel. They are both so tired. 

“Nothing this season is particularly…” Miranda searches for the word, “inspiring,” she settles on. 

Nigel nods, pushing through a few more of the photos. Reds, ambers and green call out the pages but the office is cast in shadows. The day is setting and their lone figures are illuminated in the sunset. 

*

“Now, you never ask Miranda anything. Do you understand?” Emily’s voice rang shrill from the outer office. 

Miranda did not need to see the new recruit to know that she would be trembling in her seat. This was the third in only a matter of weeks. Emily was not having much luck finding a girl who could manage to walk, follow basic instructions and not lose her head. 

Usually Miranda found particular joy in hearing Emily give her opening address, running through all the ways this job was more about keeping your mouth shut and your tears to yourself till you go home than anything else.

But today it grated. Screeching fingernails against a chalkboard. 

“You are here to help Miranda, okay? She does not need to, nor care to, hear anything about what you think or feel, okay?” Emily sneered. 

All Miranda could hear was Cassidy words from last night in her mind. They had been arguing, again. Her daughter’s words screeched shrill in her mind. 

_“All the papers are right about you. Everything the kids say at school. You’re a cold bitch.”_

Miranda had sent her to her room. Had grounded her. Had matched her glare for glare at breakfast this morning. 

The room spun. The weight presed in at her from all sides again. 

“Emily.” Her whisper broke through Emily’s tirade. 

There was a clamber of crutches and chair. The clatter was a welcome reprieve. 

Once she had sent Emily off to follow up a missed order, she caught the new assistant’s eye – wide and terrified – peering into the office. She looked away and then down at the accounts she was working on. She barked out an order for the new girl to go down to Legal and collect the latest report. She made sure to be specific. She did not need interruptions or unnecessary questions. 

*

“Here you go.” Stephen set the drink down in front of her and sat at his bar stool. The divorce was finally official and they had gone to the bar across the street from the lawyer’s office to celebrate. The November rain fell steady and strong outside. 

Miranda had seen more of her husband, ex-husband now, more throughout the divorce process than she had in years. They had been able to have conversations without him shouting or her clawing at his every soft spot. They were amicable. They were agreeable. They did not swipe at each other over possessions, nor dispute finances. After failing so terribly at being able to live a life together, they excelled at detaching themselves from each other. 

She sipped at her drink. Stephen had remembered her favourite with ease. He always had a good memory for what she liked. She remembered how flattered she had been by his attention to detail, how she so often had to demand it of people but he seemed so in tune with her without a thought. On their first few dates she had been so taken with him. He knew her by heart. She had fallen so fast. And now they toasted to the carefully tailored division of property and to the end. Her favourite drink tasted bitter and Miranda had to squint her eyes shut. 

“Caroline misses you.” 

Stephen shifted in his seat. While he had known how to charm Miranda, he had not taken quickly to parenting the girls. He did not know how to deal with their eccentricities, their wild temperaments. But he and Caroline had forged a quiet bond that she knew they both grieved the loss of. 

“I miss her too. I’m glad the girls still want to spend some of the holidays with me.” A long weekend had been allocated in one clause, subject to conditions and sure to expire once the girls hit their teenage years and lost their fondness for their once step-father. But for now Miranda was glad that her girls did not have to lose anymore than they had too. 

Maybe Miranda was feeling particularly morose because she felt the concessions continue to slip away from her. 

“I am not a very good wife.”

Stephen shook his head. 

“I wasn’t a very good friend to you, Miranda. And if I’m going to be sorry for anything, I’m very sorry for that.”

She and Stephen had been friends for a long time before they started seeing each other. They both came up in the same circles, watching each other’s struggles and success. Miranda felt his loss anew. 

“Well, I am very glad to be rid of you.” Miranda tried to hide the croak in her voice, let her smirk unspool across her face. 

“And I you.”

“As long as we both shall live.” They clinked their glasses together. 

*

A lemon yellow? No, paler. Miranda stabbed her brush at the palette, swiped across the mix and slapped at the water puddle before striking at the canvas again. She found painting frustrating. She longed for the far more clear-cut line of a pencil, or even charcoal. Even with a fine tip brush, she did not have the patience for building up the shape gradually. She had enjoyed the weeks where they could slash at the page with deliberate lines, crafting a sketch with precision. 

She heard the footsteps of the teacher approach her table. She glanced at the reference image and steeled herself for the gentle but firm instruction she would receive. Usually in this hour every Wednesday evening she was able to block out every obstructing noise or thought but she had to begrudge Albert his wisdom. He stooped over her shoulder, considering her canvas. 

“I like your shading here, Miranda. But your shadows are inconsistent, maybe try working some more in on this side.” 

Miranda hummed in response, reaching for another brush. 

The art class had been the therapist’s idea. And to be fair to her, it had been one of her better ones. 

The therapist had been a compromise, a peace treaty between her and Cassidy. Cassidy would see the therapist two more times a week, and Miranda would begin seeing a therapist herself. Neither were very happy about the agreement, but it meant they had stopped fighting. Not as much at least.

Miranda thinks she may have given Emily an aneurysm trying to find a suitable therapist. She had suffered through a number of them in the past. Her first husband had been a great fan of couples counselling. Miranda thinks she may have developed a hernia trying to stave off the indulgent discussions of over-exaggerated feelings and supposedly deep seeded childhood trauma.

So she had been sure that she had given Emily yet another futile mission, but to her pleasant surprise the redhead had supplied Anita’s business card. The woman did not look like much at first, mousy hair and severe glasses, but she could hold her own. She did not make condescending suggestions about Miranda’s happiness and did not dig around in Miranda’s childhood. Miranda was there for her girls and so that is what they talked about. Anita did not call her parenting into question or belittle her concerns. Miranda did not know if it was helping but at least she had someone to grumble to who was bound by confidentiality and a handsome pay cheque. 

While Miranda would swat away any unwanted recommendations for her own life, Anita’s suggestion of a hobby outside of work had taken hold. She had sneered at the idea at first, but found herself thinking on it for days afterwards. She remembered one of the girls’ friends’ mothers talking about an art night class she had attended. About how much she had enjoyed it. At the time, Miranda’s hands had ached for a paintbrush. The girl she used to be had beckoned to her, conjouring up memories of sketches piling up in stacks in her room, cascades of colour and light. 

She had not enlisted Emily but had researched the place herself. She blocked out in schedule one evening a week, coinciding with the girls’ karate class, and signed herself up. 

So now it was a ritual. She would leave the office at seven, walk the blocks down to the school, and slip into anonymity for an hour. No one there cared who she was. Everyone there was lost in their own worlds. Her change of outfit helped her blend in and let her join the others in a solar system of shared isolation. Miranda would find herself craving it throughout the week. Her thoughts would drift, her hands often reaching for a pencil to quickly sketch out a day dream, or just a desire to trade in the red lines of her editor’s pen for something that created instead of chopping down. 

She found herself making attempts, small creative pursuits in her own time. Late at night in the den while waiting for the book Miranda dabbled in what she knew: broad strokes of a man’s suit lapel; the cluster of jewels on a bangle; a twist of material on the back of a dress. Other days she found herself tracing photos of the girls, boldly emphasising their flaming hair and brightly colouring their grinning eyes and mouths. 

That night she lingered. She took time cleaning her equipment and packing away her things. She was one of the last to leave, and maybe that is why she collided so unexpectedly in the hallway. 

Andrea Sachs was suddenly in front of her and her carefully packed up bag unpacked itself all over her feet. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Andrea exclaimed, and then her face switched from surprise to terror, almost comically, when realised who she had bumped into. 

“Miranda, oh uh, here let me help you.” The woman dropped to the floor and gathered the contents of Miranda’s bag back together and eased them back in as Miranda held it open. Miranda just tried not to gape at her. 

“What are you doing here?” Miranda asked, once they were both upright again, bewildered.

Andrea, rendered suddenly shy, self-consciously tucked her hair behind her ear. Her fringe had grown out but her curls still fell long over her shoulders.

“I take the creative writing class.”

“I thought you were a journalist?” 

“I am. It’s just, after Paris, I promised myself I would do more things just for me. I know its silly, but it’s important to me.” Andrea stammered though her little speech and stared determinedly at the floor. 

Miranda wanted to say that that was not silly. It was not silly at all. She wanted to say that in fact she was probably here for the exact same reason. But she didn’t say that. She didn’t say anything at all. 

“What are you doing here, Miranda?” Andrea ventured, her voice sounding a bit braver. Her raincoat looked well-worn. Her jeans were too baggy and her shoes scuffed. But Miranda was wearing an oversized shirt with paint smeared on it. 

“I take the art class.” The words came out sounding somewhat defensive, but earned her a smile. 

“Well then.” Andrea breathed and readjusted the strap of her backpack. 

“Yes.” Miranda replied weakly, still feeling rather jumbled. 

“I need to get going, but, maybe I’ll see around here again sometime?” the suggestion seemed to amuse Andrea. 

And then she was gone again. 

Miranda made her way home feeling deflated. Just like the revenge plans she had concocted for Irv, she had Andrea’s doom down to the detail too. She had shown mercy, allowed the woman to realise her potential elsewhere but had craved the opportunity to cut her down to size when the moment struck. To make her pay for humiliating her, for turning her back on her, for blindsiding her. 

She had made Irv suffer. Oh she let him resign and move on like he wanted to, let him think that he could decide his own fate, but she had set snares and wound traps. Any company he tried to leech onto next would deal to him, she had made sure of it. 

But somehow, in some inextricable way, Andrea had caught her like this again. Had been able to see her exposed. She had no weapons, nothing to protect or provoke with. Andrea had seen her and she had left. Again. 

So maybe that is why the next week she lingered again. She picked Albert’s mind about next week’s introduction to sculpture and deliberately took her time gathering her things. So by the time she walked out into the hallway, there Andrea was again. 

“Good evening, Miranda.” There is that smile. It reminds Miranda of the one that used to greet her every morning, always accompanied "good morning Miranda" no matter how awful things were. Actually no, she thinks now, it's not like that. The old smile was one of duty, of I-hate-this-job-but-that-doesn't-mean-I-can't-be-polite-about-it. The smile approaching her now is genuine. Miranda does not know what to do with that.

“Hello Andrea.” She felt her mocking speech well up inside of her-

“I need to go back to the office to finish up a few things, can I walk you out?”

She was disarmed by Andrea’s smile. She nodded swiftly and fell into step beside her. A surrender. 

*

There is so much to be learned in a few minutes a week. 

One of them lingers in the hallway. One of them gives an excuse for lingering outside the building. They talk quietly, unassumingly, in the cool night air. Each time for a bit longer, birds peering over the edge before they spread their wings and take flight. Miranda starts to offer her a ride home on the way to pick the girls. Each time she will collect more and more details about Andrea and the life she leads now. 

Andrea has taken on too much at work. Miranda recognises the strain wearing on her. She is still too sunny and too bright but she is coming apart at the seams. Miranda looks at her and feels helpless. 

“What are you writing about?”

“What do you write about in class?”

“What do you draw?”

She wants to ask, “why are you nice to me?”

But she knows it is because Andrea is a nice person 

She wants to ask, “do you hate me?”

But she does not want to know the answer. 

*

Miranda had made no attempt to disguise her ambition. 

She had been an assistant in the fashion department. She spent her days running. Running for coffees. Running to different studios. Running messages. Running running running. In between the madness though she listened and learned and planned. 

One of the writers on the editorial team took her with him to one of the advertising parties, had ordered Miranda to stay out of the way but she still got into the bar with the executives. All of a sudden she was in front of Mr Ravitz (senior), with a far-too-strong drink in her hand and proclamations in her mouth. 

They had been deriding the magazine, lamenting its lack of profits and predicting its doom. Miranda had cut through the conversation softly but sharply. Thirteen year old Miriam had had a plan that could bring this magazine back to glory, and that plan had only grown and expanded with time and knowledge. 

She had explained to him, in just a few short sentences - even then she was sure not waste any of her words, any of her breath - her dream for Runway. He listened to her plan, her vision, and let out a full bellied laugh. 

“You, my girl, should run this magazine”.

Miranda did not join in his laughter but met his eyes with a deadly stare, not missing a beat. 

“Yes. Yes I should.” 

It did not seem long then (though it was years, months and months of manouvering through the ranks, pushing her way up and others out) until she was sitting across from him, that very position offered to her, sitting between them on the table, just within in her reach. 

Of course she took it. 

He had leaned across the executive desk, his suit jacket too small and pinching at the shoulders, and sneered at her. 

“Welcome to the team, Priestly.” 

They had thought it was all a great joke. Because what more could you do than laugh when one of your major publications was almost obselete and irrelevant, and your only hope was a young female upstart from the drudges of the Editorial Department. 

Miranda had reached out and grasped his hand in a firm shake, her face even firmer. Because if she is considered cold and ruthless and hungry now there are no words for what she was back then. 

*

Andrea shifts.

She alters.

She turns and adjusts.

The lights of the New York City streets play across her face. Miranda watches in raptures. 

Miranda thinks whisimically that they could spend all night out here if they wanted. The girls are staying at friends’ house. Forget the book. Forget tossing and turning in her bed for hours. The two of them could stand outside of this building until dawn, talking about office politics, New York politics, and anything they wanted to. 

But Andrea doesn’t start rattling off stories from her week this time. She grabs Miranda’s hand in her own and beams, “I want to take you somewhere.” Miranda’s heart beats violently against her chest. 

But Andrea does not lead her far away. They walk for a while and then turn down to a quieter street. Andrea guides her by the elbow until they come to a stop. 

“This is my friend Lily, and this is the art gallery where she works.” 

Andrea is smiling at her with enough force that Miranda still feels breathless. 

It is a quiet showing, a few weeks into its run. There are a few patrons still making their way around. Andrea introduces her to Lily. Miranda can see the years shared between them, the shorthand of a long, lived in, friendship. Andrea, thankfully, does not embarrass her by telling Lily about her classes, just vaguely says about her having an interest in art. 

Miranda likes Lily. She is quick witted and a friend of Andrea’s. The two of them leave her in peace to make her way around the showing. She can feel Andrea’s eyes on her as she moves. 

*

The whispers had started months before she took the position. 

Miranda Priestly, the ice blonde from the editorial department, next in line to the throne. 

Way too put a dying animal out of its misery, some had said. Others, others who had personally witnessed her dedication and unrelenting work ethic, said otherwise. 

Her husband, the first one, had heard the whispers. 

“What about having children?” he’d asked. 

“I thought this promotion wouldn’t be for years down the track,” he’d said. 

She’d pretended to bend, to accommodate him (a terrible habit she would never quite manage to break, she would never compromise at work but that was all she seemed to try, and fail, to do at home), try to comfort him with what would become empty promises. 

“Okay, if this is what you really want?” He’d said. What he hadn’t said, which he had never said, but was always there, was why is this – a marriage, a family, him – not enough for her?

He never said it though because he knew there was never enough for her. 

She wanted to do it because she wanted it. It was gloriously selfish. There was no one else who could do this. No one but her. 

*

Andrea is fidgeting outside when Miranda leaves the building. The girl is always restless, but tonight’s movements seem more agitated. 

“What’s wrong?” Miranda asked in lieu of a greeting. 

“Oh nothing, just nerves.”

Andrea tells her about a gala she has to attend for the paper, to help promote to advertisers. It sounds like the sort of thing Miranda would never RSVP to, something she would brush off to someone less important. Just like what has happened to Andrea.

“Well, what are you going to wear?”

Andrea just lets out a small squeak. “I have no idea.”

“We could to the office. I’m sure they’ll be something that you can strap yourself into. You haven’t let yourself go completely since you left.” She drawled, but Andrea did not rise to the bait. She was too gobsmacked by Miranda’s offer. 

Andrea’s eyebrows lifted and her eyes widened. “Am I even allowed to set foot back in that building?”

“Well, I need the Book and you need a dress.”

Andrea seems at a strange impasse between amused and terrified as they leave the elevator and walk through the office. She bounces rather than walks. Her fingers are clenched in fists. 

She sits down behind her old desk as Miranda went to get the Book from accessories. 

Miranda pauses at the entranceway, curling the Book close to her, as she considers the scene before her. Andrea hunched in her chair, a wild creature back in captivity. 

“Oh you’re back.” Andrea turned up to look at her, snapping Miranda out of her haze. She sprung up and joined Miranda to head down to the Wardrobe. 

Miranda takes her time picking out different outfits, running her fingers along the fabrics, taking in the different shades and patterns. Andrea watches her patiently until they have a rack filled up by the mirrors. She stands by Miranda and considers the clothes she has lined up. If she was scattered before, she is all focus now. 

Miranda did not offer to give her any privacy. Andrea does not ask her to leave. 

She takes off her coat, peels her shirt off, shimmies out of her pants and reaches for the first dress. 

The room was in half-light. Miranda watched carefully as Andrea slipped on the dress. The first one was an ice blue. Her dark hair draped across her shoulders, the contrast of her pale pale skin and the pale pale dress striking. 

Miranda rustled around one of the shelves and passed Andrea a clasp. She understood quickly, twisting her hair up into a haphazard bun, leaving her shoulders bare. She considers herself in the mirror, then catching Miranda’s eyes in the reflection cocks her head to the side. Miranda gave a slight shake of her head and gestured back to the rack. 

They do not touch, their fingertips do not even graze when she hands her outfit after outfit. Instead it was for her eyes, for her mind to reconfigure itself and reimagine herself as a sleeve caressing an elbow, a cinch of material clinging to a waist, she is fabric and stitching wrapped up all over Andrea.

She watches her intently. Not with her cool, detached, editor’s eye. Nor her developing artist’s gaze. Miranda looks at Andrea to devour her.

Her bare wrists. The skin stretching across her collarbone. The swell of her breasts. The muscles of her back and how they shift with every movement. 

“I think this is the one.” 

Andrea turns away from Miranda to examine her appearance in the full length mirror, but her eyes hold Miranda’s gaze. The dress is dark, backless and high cut at the front. Andrea’s hands reach up behind her, unhook her bra, drag it out from under the dress and drop to the floor. She twists to the side to see the effect, her eyes never leaving Miranda’s. 

Miranda can only nod. 

She busies herself with putting away the discarded outfits as Andrea puts her own clothes back on. They do not speak as they leave the building and wait out on the street for their rides. 

When Miranda presses the garment bag into Andrea’s arm, the skin of their hands clash, sparking white hot.

*

The first time Miranda fucked a woman was in her good for nothing dump of a home town.

She had not wanted to go back to her family home after her father’s funeral. Not many had even attended and there were sure to be even fewer at the gathering. Miranda knew how suffocating that house could be though. 

She had thrown herself into her rental car and driven away without a second glance. She ended up at bar on the edge of town. 

Even now, she can still see that face so clearly. She had dark eyes, a mess of dark blone curls hoisted up around her ears haphazardly. She has the kind of style Miranda yearns to capture on the pages of her magazine but knows she never can. She had only been sitting a few seats away at the bar. 

It was nothing, nothing at all, to let herself be drawn in by the dark gaze. To cover the hand the dropped to her thigh and to whisper in her ear. 

Miranda is accustomed enough with her own tastes and preferences to know that she wants women. And just like preferring desserts and weekends not spent working, they are a taste she does not indulge in.

But that night was different. Her father is dead and no-one knows her. 

So she lets herself go back to woman’s room, lets the woman touch her any way she wants and lets herself touch her with the same abandon. 

*

The next Wednesday night took so long to come around. Miranda had tried not to think about Andrea all week. Saturday night had been particularly difficult, knowing that somewhere across the city she was in that dress, smiling and laughing with other people. 

After an eternity, she is in class. Her shoulders strain at the effort of working with the moulding clay. The tension comes from this, finally not just from the office. Her headache subsides and she can breathe.

Andrea is waiting for her in the hallway when class is over. She is leaning against the wall, a new coat and scarf wrapped around her. Miranda was struck by a feeling of being in high school again, some glossy movie version, where her crush is waiting to walk her to the next class. In a way, she is. Andrea looks up at her and beams. Her smile is infectious, Miranda feels her cheeks move against her will. 

They walk out into the night. 

“So I managed to not spill wine on the dress.”

“I’m very proud.”

“I dropped it off at security on Monday.”

“Yes I saw it had made its way back to the closet safely.”

Andrea, once again, bounced along beside her, her eyes darting around. 

“What is it this time?”

“I actually, I got a promotion.”

“Well, congratulations.” 

Miranda starts thinking about where the closest bar is, thinking what Andrea’s favourite drink could be that she could buy her to celebrate. But Andrea’s words tumble out first. 

“It’s at one of the publisher’s magazines, the job is overseas.”

All of the anticipation about tonight Miranda had felt about tonight froze in her chest. She felt short of breath. She felt foolish. She felt old. 

“You’re leaving.”

“I fly to London next week.”

Miranda has to look away. Andrea just keeps chatting, infuriately chipper with the prospect of moving miles away.

“There’s supposed to be a lot of travel with it, they wanted someone who didn’t mind. I actually get to see the world!”

 _If you wanted to see the world while tied to your phone and laptop you should have stayed with me_ , Miranda thought spitefully. 

Silence falls and finally Miranda looks back at her. 

Andrea has ducked her head, hands stuffed in the pockets and scuffing her shoe against the floor. 

That feeling of being in high school returned. She felt like she was about to be asked to the dance. 

But then Andrea says something she doesn't expect.

"May I write to you?"


	2. Chapter Two

Miranda is nothing if not modern. She is ahead of the trends, been there done that and onto the next thing. She is bound to her cell phone, to her laptop, to her online presence. But she finds herself scrounging around for stationary, barking at an assistant to get her stamps. She finally starts using the fountain pens she has been gifted over the years. 

Miranda, usually so confident and sure, feels self-conscious writing letters to Andrea. She reads the journalist’s sharp pieces every week, lingers on her conclusions and carries phrases around with her all day. Andrea's letters are different, her ideas sometimes rushed in messy scrawl and other times Miranda can see the evidence of how hard she was thinking pressed into the flesh of the paper. 

Miranda envies her. Her own correspondence takes her so long to compose. At work, she spends her whole day not wasting words and critiquing others. At home, she spends hours though wondering how to make herself known on the page. 

So sometimes instead she slips in a photograph, or a quick sketch instead. She used to love taking photographs but for so long now even framing a shot makes her think of work. She is beginning to renew her appreciation of it now, feeling the same thrill of pleasure at picking up her old camera as she does reaching for a piece of charcoal. 

*

William has been lurking. He is a couple of years younger than her but still has managed to rack up the same number of divorces and has two young children as well. His hair does not show any sign of thinning and his architecture firm has really taken off in the past few years. He is serious and does not blabber on. 

Miranda turns down his every dinner invitation, every offered drink. He gets the message soon enough. 

*

Anita’s office is an overwhelming muddle of blues and pastels. The cheap art on the walls distracted Miranda so often during their sessions. She is better at ignoring them now. Anita does not keep much on her desk, even the woman herself is not very interesting to look at. Thick black glasses, ill-suited fringe and barely any jewelry. 

It is a sort of meditation, trying not to focus on her surroundings, just the sound of their voices. 

She presses her hands still on the material of her skirt as she talks about Cassidy’s inability to sleep through the night. She would wander into the den at all times of the night and sit with her mother. One scrawling notes through the book, one tapping away at a game on her phone. Two nights owls roosting. 

She looks away as Anita talks her through steps with to take with Caroline and the issues she is having making friends at school. Her gaze slips out of focus on the dark carpet. 

Anita tries to slip a personal question about Miranda in every other week. She waits until the session is drawing to a close, warming and opening her up. It is usually an innocuous, “how have you been?” Then Miranda’s focus finds its target, a withering glare sent across the room. Miranda has to give credit to Anita. Each time the woman holds her stare without blinking. 

Lately, Miranda has been blinking first. 

*

She had let Cara take the girls off to look at some of the other wings of the museum so she could stay at the exhibit longer. She did not know a great deal about this style and the afternoon crowd was starting to thin so she could take her time in studying the lines, the colours, the spaces in between.

“Miranda?” 

She turns around and sees Lily. 

“Hello.”

“It’s Lily.” 

“Yes, I remember.”

Lily smiles like she doesn’t believe her and turns slightly to look at the piece Miranda was in front of. 

“Andrea told me about this exhibit.”

“I told her about it.”

“Oh well, it is you I have to thank then.”

Lily smiles again, wider this time. 

“I am great fan of his work.”

Miranda walks with Lily for another hour, letting her tell about his previous exhibits, his method and pointing out the small details. 

She writes to Andrea about it later. In her reply, Andrea laments that Lily has told her that she told Andrea all about all of Andrea’s embarrassing high school stories. Miranda does not make any attempt to correct her. 

*

She is dragged out of another showing to head up to the boardroom. The shareholders are never happy. Management can barely handle themselves let alone the entirety of Elias Clarke. 

Miranda’s evenings are filled with more numbers than pages of her own magazine. 

She had remembered the adrenaline she used to get from wrangling the funding in her favour, how chasing down the money her publication was worth used to thrill her. Now, she just sits hollow at her desk trying to trim the budget here, let someone go there, dropping another feature, and noise roaring in her ears. 

*

Andrea is having trouble with someone at work. She sketches out some upstart of a man, questioning her authority, bugging her at every turn. Even Andrea’s words are frustrated, each letter bent askew with the speed and force at which they are written. Miranda thinks about the ruthlessness she had seen in the girl when worked at _Runway_ , about how she wouldn’t want to underestimate her. She likes the thought of Andrea growing into her own, even so far away. 

_You need to be meaner_ , Miranda writes with a grin.

Later, Andrea writes back, _no, I don’t_. 

*

Today’s Nigel had a bit more spark in him. He was talking rapidly about the collection they had just seen in midtown. The entire walk to the town car was spent with his hands waving wildly about fresh talent, new ideas, and a breath of new life. 

Miranda let him monologue, she too had been very happy with what they had seen. The pastels shimmered in her mind, the soft blends and the painstaking detail. She had been very pleased indeed. The designer had been just as nervous when the _Runway_ crew left than when they had arrived. Of course they would have heard about how to gage Miranda’s reaction, she knew that rough translation guides had spread across the industry, but the fear of showing a first major collection does not subside easily. 

Miranda had not wanted to leave. She had wanted to stay in that space, surrounded by delicately crafted fabrics and breathe it all in. 

*

…

I am writing to you, yet again, from an airport. I had had rather romantic notions of writing letters while sitting by the waterfront, or in idyllic cafes, or while watching a sunset. But I can’t say that I’ve found much time to dwell in any European scenery lately. And even when I am, I hardly feel like sitting down and writing. Don’t think I don’t want to though! Often we’re having a conversation in my head as I stroll down the street, or look out over a particularly nice view. I can assure you I am still as foolish as ever in these exchanges, and you are always quick to put me right with a sharp comment. 

Maybe I could start calling you instead? Is your number still the same? At least then you could have more control over these hypothetical conversations and probably have much more interesting things to say than my poor caricature of you. 

Anyway, for now, an airport it is. Shall I wax poetic about the cranky businessman I’m sitting next to, the constant hum of suitcase wheels, or my gurgling stomach that can smell the donut stand from here? Prague was absolutely magnificent. It’s airport, however, is much the same as every other I’ve sat in these past few months. 

I’m looking forward to getting back to London. They’ve reshuffled my editorial team and it’ll be nice to meet the newbies in person. I’ll even be happy to be back at my miniscule desk! I’ve pinned the photo of Patricia to my noticeboard, she looks very dignified – I’d expect nothing less from a Priestly! 

And as for being homesick yet, I didn’t think I have been. It’s been so busy! But I was talking to my Mom the other night and I remembered how long its been since I visited – my nephew is almost three! I feel like a very neglectful aunt.

I’ve been listening to a lot of Joni Mitchell lately, so I guess getting teary eyed and assigning more meaning to the state of California than I have reason too may count as a yearning to be stateside again. 

….

 

*

The inquiries had been innocent at first. She already knew the intimate details of the trade. She was friends with these designers, heads of prestigious fashion houses, leaders in the industry. She knew what it meant to run a fashion house. It was the practicalities, specifics, which she was curious about. 

So she met with her accountant, pondered locations, thought and thought and thought. 

The sheer absurdity of the idea may have been why it took her so long to face up to what she was really doing, what she was really planning. 

A Priestly fashion house. Somewhere for her to develop new designers, somewhere to begin designing herself. To create rather than curate. 

To leave _Runway_. 

Until now, she would not have even entertained the notion. What more could she have ever wanted to be known for than for _Runway_? It was all she had ever wanted. Miriam, at eight years old, every year since then, all through her teens and hell even Miranda now, with a magazine on her lap and a future gripping her mind where she was the one in charge, creating something fantastic and revered. 

It had been all she had ever wanted. 

But, now. Now, a thread of restlessness had been sewn in her. It scratched and itched. The days passed. She sat in run throughs, department meetings, glared at her assistants, the thought tugging at her mind relentlessly. 

She had never questioned her own satisfaction of her job. She had chosen it above everything, above everyone. 

She had made it. She running the world she had longed for from afar for so long. Her opinion and judgement was indisputable and held in the highest regard. 

Why should she want for anything else?

*

"Miranda?"

"Yes, hello Andrea."

"Hi, must be terribly late for you?"

"Hmm yes I suppose."

"Not sleeping well?"

"Yes, as usual. But is it so hard that to believe that I would call at a time more convenient for you?"

"Oh well, thanks. I'm just walking back to my apartment."

Miranda could hear the faint sound of London traffic in the background. 

She thinks about the distance between them. How she would have to reach out over oceans just to touch her hand. She thinks about the letters in the box on her desk, how Andrea's hand touched those pages, and now hers could too. An intimacy patch worked across continents.

"Long day?"

"Not too bad. I'm feeling on top of things for once, which is a nice change. What's keeping you up?"

"I wanted to know..." Miranda trailed off trying to phrase her question correctly

"That day in Paris,” she began slowly, “why did you choose to leave?"

Andrea must have stopped walking. Miranda can hear the rumble of cars and the patter of rain crackle down the line.

"Miranda," her voice is quiet. There had always been an unspoken understanding between them that neither of them wanted to pick over old scars. 

"I mean more, how did you know that leaving is what you had to do?"

The rephrasing must have put Andrea at ease because she can hear her begin to walk again. 

"I didn't know for certain. To tell you the truth, I wasn't really thinking at all. I just went with my gut."

“Is your ‘gut’ a key factor in all your major decision-making?” Miranda teased. 

"Well, yeah. I mean, I guess so.” 

Miranda holds back from teasing at her stammering. She wants guidance, not to make fun of her. 

Andrea finally lets out a sigh, "you just have to trust yourself. That's all you can ever do."

Miranda thinks about the thread pulling at her all week. 

“Thank you.” 

"Ha, sure. What's this all about anyway?" Andrea's voice sounds cautious, calculated. Miranda imagined her approaching like a person would a wounded animal. 

"Nothing important."

*

Miranda could not forget a single detail of her first September issue even if she had wanted to. 

Not that there had been a spare minute for her to review every single detail. They had been under immense amount of time pressure. Advertisers had been pulling out as fast they had been enticing them. Her husband wanted to divorce her. She could not get the photographer she wanted. The sister who had not spoken to her for five years suddenly wanted to come and stay with her in New York. All eyes were on her. 

But the issue had somehow come out spectacular. It still sat on her shelf in the den. She didn’t really look over it much, but knowing it was there was a comfort of sorts. All those nights she had spent at the office, all the times when no one but her believed in the decisions she was making, all of it spread across those pages. The sales had dispelled any doubts about her promotion. Her crown was forged. 

She could sit anywhere and open the pages in her mind, read it from cover to cover and let it encompass her. 

*

The breaking point wasn’t any particular one. There were plenty of moments that could have done it, everything seemed to fall over when her back was turned. In the end, it was just simply leaving the office one day and suddenly realising that she did not want to walk back in. 

The next morning she called Nigel into her office. She wishes she could photograph the look on his face when she offers him the job, wishes she could slide it into her next letter to Andrea. His mouth is still somewhat agape when he finally answers. 

“Can I have the weekend to think over it?”

“No. If you want it, you want it.”

“Then yes, I want it.” 

“Wonderful. We have two months to get you ready.”

*

The girls rush to the door when it rings early Saturday morning. They had spotted the courier van from the window. Now that Stephen was gone, they were the only ones who ever got things delivered straight to the townhouse, everything else went to the _Runway_ office. 

Miranda hears their exasperation from the den. 

“Ugh, Mom it’s just for you.” 

She hears the thud as the package is discarded in the hallway.

“Well, bring it here why don’t you.” Miranda mutters under her breath as she sits the folder she was reading through back down on the table. 

The package is not very big. Miranda glances at the return address, sees Andrea’s London apartment listed. She rips into it, tossing the packaging aside. It’s a book. A novel, slim and brand new. Miranda hasn’t heard of the writer, scans the blurb to see if she can deduce why Andrea might have sent it to her. They had talked of literature, of taste and favourites, but nothing like this. 

The mystery was solved once Miranda opened the front cover and a note fluttered out. 

_Miranda_

_I wrote a book._

_It’s about you and not about you._

_It comes out next month and I want you to be my first review._

_Andy_

*

Miranda does not call her right away, even though she wants to. She wants to demand to know how she managed to fit in writing a novel in between traversing the world and clambering up the publishing ladder. She manages to stifle her bafflement enough to clear away her work for the day and curl up on the couch with Andrea’s book. A book that Andrea, apparently, wrote, at least in part, about her. 

She doesn’t quite finish it on Saturday. There are calls to make, going out with the girls to walk Patricia, dinner, and homework. She picks up the book again Sunday morning, where she left off after a long night of being wrapped in a world of Andrea’s characters. It was about a family. It was funny and sad and lovely. It rang true in so many ways. 

She almost doesn't see herself, not at first. 

It had occurred to her while partway through it that she may have to be worried. That despite Andrea’s pseudonym, the press may catch onto a former assistant writing a novel with any possible allusions to her Ice Queen former boss. But she need not have been concerned. There was no silver haired monster lurking through pages. Indeed Miranda could not assign any one character to her, but instead felt herself fragmented across it. The media would not be able recognise the pieces of her throughout the story. They would be looking for a tyrant, someone cool cruel and calculating. And shades of that were in there yes, but the characters were demanding but fair, uncaring but focused, cunning but courageous. 

She and Andrea had been trading letters for the better part of a year now, but Miranda wondered if she had finally received her first love letter. 

*

“Thank God! I’ve been freaking out for days!” 

“Oh do calm down,” Miranda chuckled. She had waited until after class on Wednesday to call, letting her impressions simmer for a while. And, as now confirmed, let Andrea squirm. 

“So you liked it?”

“Does it matter if I did?” Miranda jests.

“Of course it does!” Miranda can imagine Andrea throwing up her hands in exasperation. 

“Well I did, very much.” 

She can hear Andrea’s huge sigh of relief.

“Now do you want to hear my full review now or wait till it comes out in _Runway_?” 

“Huh? What? I didn’t mean that you had to give me a spot in _Runway_ , I just wanted to know what you thought!” 

Miranda chuckled again. She spotted the town car pull up and so made her way over to it. 

“Oh yes I know, but I am going to put an official review in the next issue. What’s a little of bit of nepotism amongst friends?” 

Andrea just huffs.

“Anyway, I think it will be in the next list from the publishers won’t it? I’m sure you wouldn’t have used up all your charm on Charlie just on getting it published now did you?” Miranda smiles at her suspicions being confirmed as Andrea just mumbles in agreement with her.

“I’m glad at least some of your networking as my assistant came in useful for you.” 

“Ha yeah, a familiar face did make the task of turning my hobby into something that could actually sell a bit less daunting.”

“I’m sure. Now, before I give my notes on it, I have some news of my own.”

Miranda hadn’t planned on telling her so soon. Not that she was going to let her find out from the newspaper, but she was going to wait till things were a bit more firmly in place. Now seemed the time for sharing matters of this proportion. So she lets herself tell Andrea all the things she had been bottling up, the upcoming departure from _Runway_ , the investors she had lined up for the fashion house, the designers, how she was dismantling and reconstructing her own future. She had expected Andrea to be shocked but was only met with a knowing hum. 

“You’re not surprised?”

“Well, you have been talking about it for ages.” 

Miranda freezes. She hadn’t revealed a single detail of her plan to anyone who didn’t need to know, including Andrea. 

Andrea just laughs at Miranda’s stunned silence.

“Come on, I’ve seen this mid life crisis coming from a mile away!”

“It’s not a mid life crisis.” Miranda grits out, her voice dropping deadly low.

“Woah, I know that. I was only joking.”

Still angry, Miranda doesn’t respond. 

“Really, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just, you have sounded like you wanted something more for a while now. Even when we were only chatting outside of class. I’m really proud of you, you know. This is big. This is exciting. You must be excited.” 

The sudden pressure on Miranda’s chest starts to ease again. She shakes her head and leans back against the car seat. 

“Well, yes. But I won’t bore you with the details now. Tell me everything about this book of yours.”

*

Caroline and Cassidy’s high-pitched voices echoed down the hall. They were getting louder and faster, one trying to overtake the other. 

“Good time at the Fair was it, Bobbsey?” Miranda says absentmindedly as they crash into the kitchen.

The two of them bubble up and down about the rides and the prizes and strange things they saw. Stephen’s voice comes in to steady them, giving Miranda a far more straightforward and brief account of the afternoon. He places a basket of bread and other bits of fresh baking on the counter to join Caroline’s plush turtle and Cassidy’s bag of half-eaten candy floss. He picks up the spatula that Miranda had put down and stirs the sauce while Miranda continues to chop vegetables. 

The smells of dinner grow stronger as the four of them shuffle around the kitchen at different volumes and frequencies. The girls show her the other things they had bought, even a few photos they wanted her to send Andy. 

“You can stay for dinner if you’d like,” Miranda offers in a low murmur. 

Stephen smiles at her from across the counter but says he had better get back home. The girls barely stop chatting to each give him a hug goodbye. They are back at full speed as the three of them sit down at the table, the room full of the sound and the smell of dinner. 

*

Andrea’s book sells quite well. People seem to like well enough too. Andrea insists that she does not want to read reviews, but Miranda knows that she peeks so sends her snippets of praise from different publications. 

“So am I your muse?” she asks slyly one night. Her paperwork for the night sat finished on the table, the cushions were soft around her, the red wine warm on her tongue and the question felt harmless enough. 

She was rewarded with the sound of Andrea’s laugh tinkling down the line.

“I suppose that’s the word for it isn’t it? I suppose you are used to being an inspiration, I am just one of the masses.” 

Miranda’s heart climbs up her throat. She does not know how to say that this is different. That yes so many dresses and outfits have been designed for her and her alone. But this, all that Andrea has given her, is so much more than the measurements of her body or the image she wants to project. 

Thankfully Andrea interrupts her frantic search for the right words. 

“Hey, you’ve been dabbling in the creative too. Please tell me that I have had at least something to do with whatever Albert has got you working this week. I fully expect a portrait in the mail any day now.” 

“You’ll be waiting a very long time for that, Andrea.”

Miranda does not want to admit that she’s tried. That she has spent so much time turning over the details of her Andrea in her head, trying to somehow let that flow onto the canvas. She does not want to tell her that everything she would ever want to capture about Andrea is nothing static. Nothing that can be pinned down with a stroke of her pencil or contained on the page. She wants her, entire. 

*

Miranda had managed to keep the news of her departure under wraps until the final week. It was then that the whispers erupted. 

The feeling that flooded through her as she walked out of the Elias Clarke building on her final day was indescribable. She and the girls escaped the city, going to the Hamptons for a long weekend. She turned her phone off and was suddenly able not to give it a second thought. 

She gets back to voicemails, messages of concern. Condolences. Unsolicited advice. Friends, enemies, page six, all wanted to know what had happened, what the hell she could be thinking. 

Miranda barely returns any of the messages. She is doing this because she wants to. And she does not care what anyone else thinks, not even a little, not even at all. 

*

Elyse had been one of the first people Miranda had called when she had decided to put things in motion. It had been years since she had to deal with her, but the impression she had left was lasting. Miranda did not want to get bogged down in the mechanics of the operation and wanted someone she could trust to look after that side. She was tired of working to a bottom line. She knew how to run a business but she wanted this project to be so much more than that. 

“Trying to start up a new label in the wake of a recession, you’ve got some balls Miranda.”

Miranda simply raised her glass to the other woman. 

“And you won’t try to fight me if I tell you no.”

“Not if you’re right.” 

Rolling her eyes, Elyse raises her glass too. 

“To our future battles then.”

 

*  
“I’ve got you on speaker.”

Miranda can hear the hiss of a kettle, the bubbling of something on the stovetop, the clatter of cutlery. 

“Making a feast are we?” 

“Trying! I’ve got some friends coming over in about an hour and my main course is very behind schedule.” 

Miranda feels a stab of something – jealously? Loneliness? - between her ribs. She is all too often reminded of the separate lives they lead. Their letters and the phone bind the two of them together but there is so much in between. 

As Andrea prattles on about the riddles of the recipe she is following, Miranda thinks about how she must look right now. 

Is her hair tied up? What colour is she wearing? Are her cheeks flushed? 

“Miranda?”

“Hmm.” 

“I asked how set up was going.” 

“Oh, we’re managing to stay on schedule which is a miracle considering the amount of idiocy we’ve had to put up with.”

Miranda knows that Andrea is letting her prattle now. She knows that she will have to stop once Andrea’s friends arrives. She knows that she will have to keep going about her day wanting to still talk to her when she can’t. She knows that she will lie awake tonight, wishing that Andrea was beside her, close enough to touch. 

 

*

When Miranda had chosen their location, the building had had to be remodeled extensively. It had pushed back their start date, but it had been worth it. 

The design room closest to her office was Miranda’s favourite. It was the smallest of the design rooms, but had the best light and didn’t get any of the street noise. 

She did not have a direction yet for any sort of collection, but would spend her breaks in there sketching or looking through different fabrics. 

Her mind was taking a long time to retrain itself. Every instinct she had seemed to be to build on something of someone else’s, not build her own from scratch. 

Each day it shifts though. The colours she sees come adrift from designers she has studied so close for so long and take on their own meaning. She sees material caressing a waist, fabric stretched across shoulders, becoming clearer and clearer. 

*

“You’ve been sleeping better.”

“Let’s put it down to the exhaustion.”

*

It was not until Miranda confirmed the details for Priestly’s attendance at Paris Fashion Week that the realisation hit her. She had travelled plenty of times since Andrea left, but finally she had more control over her own schedule. The possibility, the potential, hit her like a bolt of lightning.

She wanted to write her a note, romantic and whimsical, to meet her in Paris. 

Her fingers itched to call her. 

In the end, she sent the dates in an email, inquiring whether she was available at all any of those evenings. Detached, professional even. She hoped Andrea could read between the lines.

_Please please come, please come and see me, please please please ___

__*_ _

__The Fashion world still did not seem to know how to deal with a Miranda Priestly who was not editor of _Runway_. She knew that it must get to Nigel that despite his solid start at the helm, everyone still flocked to her. In a way it was comforting, that she had not been given the cold shoulder at the event of year, she was still atop the empire. _ _

__The circus of Fashion Week swept her up. Despite not having to cover it for a magazine and merely being there to scope out the other collections, it all moved so fast that Miranda could barely catch her breath._ _

__She realised her mistake on the evening she was to meet Andrea. She was able to keep her schedule clear but the week was drawing to a close and Miranda felt bone tired. Nervous energy fuelled her enough to pull on a fresh outfit, touch up her make up and get to the restaurant._ _

__Andrea had booked them in at a quiet place not too far from Miranda’s hotel, but far enough away from the crowds. Miranda stared at her menu and tried not to think about how old and weary she felt._ _

__“Hey you.”_ _

__And suddenly, she’s there._ _

__Andrea is standing before entirely different and completely the same. Her hair is cut short, curling under her ears. Her eyes still shine the same. Before Miranda can move, Andrea has rounded the table and pressed a swift kiss to her cheek._ _

__“It’s good to see you.”_ _

__“And you,” is all Miranda can reply._ _

__Throughout the dinner, Miranda realises how much Andrea has changed. She can see it in the line of her shoulders, the way she holds herself. Andrea is more still now, less restless. Somehow settled in her wandering._ _

__She is all bright and shining and Miranda can’t help but feel pitiful. Andrea came all this way and all she can offer her is exhaustion and nerves. She doesn’t want to talk about the Fashion House. She has spent this whole week establishing their place. She doesn’t want to talk about the girls. She misses them too much._ _

__She wants to take Andrea back to her hotel. Stay, Miranda wants to beg, stay. She wants to peel every single item of clothing off their bodies, press their skin together. She wants to go to crawl under the covers and never come back out._ _

__She wants Andrea to take her harrowed, exhausted heart from her – I don’t want it, it’s yours, all yours._ _

__And so of course, Miranda vulnerable and raw becomes Miranda twisted and barbed. Andrea makes a joke, a harmless comment, and Miranda strikes._ _

__“Do you think I talk like this with everyone?”_ _

__“No, of course not. I get that this is special.”_ _

__“Do you?” Miranda’s claws unsheathe on instinct._ _

__“Yes, I do.”_ _

__“Well, last time I talked to you here, you were on the next flight out of the country.”_ _

__“That was different!”_ _

__“You _knew_ me. And you left.”_ _

__“I was working for you!”_ _

__“You think I don’t know that? You spent almost a year with me, Andrea. Yet, you act like that time meant _nothing_ to you.”_ _

__“Miranda, that year meant _everything_ to me. Why do you think I wrote the book?” _ _

__“Oh yes, do enlighten me, Andrea.”_ _

__Instead of rising to Miranda’s barb, Andrea’s voice turns gentle, “I started writing when I got back from Paris. I didn’t know what it was at the time. And then I started to go to classes, and then I saw you again, and you weren’t awful and mean but you were lovely, and charming and everything I thought I must have made up in my head.”_ _

__She pauses, looking down at her plate._ _

__“It was about how to be okay with falling in love with someone who didn’t treat you very well.”_ _

__Miranda is quiet for a long time._ _

__“Well what about last year?”_ _

__Andrea shifts uncomfortably, keeping her gaze locked down._ _

__“You knew the whole time that you were going to leave didn’t you?”_ _

__“I asked to be considered for the position before I met you again.”_ _

__And Miranda would never ask her not to take the job. It is something she would never ask want asked of herself._ _

__And for what? Andrea, stay in New York, stay within my reach. I want you everywhere, and entirely._ _

__“I didn’t know if you would write back. I didn’t know what would happen.”_ _

__They finish their dinner in the silence._ _

__“Let me walk you back to your hotel.”_ _

__Miranda tries to reach out for Andrea’s hand as they walk, but the wounds are still fresh between them. She finds her voice just as they arrive outside of her hotel._ _

__“You can come up, if you’d like. For a drink.”_ _

__“It’s okay, I’m staying near here.”_ _

__She searches Andrea’s face for anger, for resentment. But she doesn’t find any of those familiar dark shades. Her face is solemn, but calm._ _

__“I’m not running away,” Andrea says with a pointed look. And then Miranda is in her arms. The embrace is short, but Miranda feels a weight lift of her as she nestles her face into Andrea’s collarbone._ _

__She feels Andrea’s lips press against her hair and then she is gone._ _

__*_ _

__The envelope had Andrea’s handwriting on it. She had stuffed it into her handbag this morning and then slipped it into her desk drawer in the office._ _

__She managed to hold out until mid afternoon before tearing it open. There was no letter, just a newspaper clipping._ _

__Her own face stared back at her. Her cheeks were pinched pink and a wild look in her eyes. Andrea’s face is obscured by her hair, her chin dipped down. Someone must have been sitting close enough to them to snap a picture of their table at the restaurant that day. But they can’t have been close enough to hear because the headline proclaimed, “Dragon Lady back at it again! Ice Queen continues her cruel reign even off the throne.” The article carried on in a similar nonsensical tone. Apparently she had spent her ‘work’ dinner eviscerating some underling, and according to ‘sources close to Miranda’ the stress and regret of leaving _Runway_ was getting to her. _ _

__Miranda let out a hoot of laughter._ _

__Andrea picked up after the first ring._ _

__“I thought you would enjoy that.” Her voice is light and happy. Miranda can’t stop laughing, her chest rattling unrestrained._ _

__*_ _

__“Oh, this is different.” Caroline is in the doorway of her office, clutching her phone and bag, looking around curiously, “I’m not getting the usual vibe I get when I visit you at work.”_ _

__“And what ‘vibe’ might that be?” Miranda rolled her eyes._ _

__“Like everyone is about to either throw up or pass out, or both.”_ _

__Miranda shoots her an evil smile._ _

__“Stephanie,” she says._ _

__The blonde whirls around the corner._ _

__While she does not have to torment her staff here, there is never any harm in maintaining a certain level of fear._ _

__“Please confirm our reservation for lunch. And call Luca and tell her I will need those designs by five pm.” Her breath catches as she is about to say ‘That’s all’, the words come as naturally to her as breath._ _

__“Thank you,” she says instead, gritting her teeth slightly._ _

__Caroline has a smug grin on her face._ _

__*_ _

__It had taken a while to adjust to the quiet of the studio. Even though there was never a word out of turn in the _Runway_ offices, there was always movement and whirring and clacking. Here, the afternoon trickled away without disruption or delay. _ _

__That was until there was a knock at the door._ _

__Miranda had just been adjusting the pins on one of the dresses when Simone poked her head around the corner, “you’ve got someone here to see you.” Before Miranda had time to think that there were no appointments left that day, Andrea was in the doorway._ _

__She dressed in dark colours, but framed in the lemonade sunshine beaming into the room. She is here, finally._ _

__“What…” Miranda starts._ _

__“I had enough meetings here to justify the flight,” Andrea says dismissively._ _

__Miranda stands rooted to her spot as Andrea looks around the room, taking in all of the mannequins, tracing her fingers along the fabrics._ _

__“You’re putting together a collection?”_ _

__Miranda nodded, “I’d like to be able to show this year, and if not maybe next.”_ _

__“You’ve kept quiet about this,” Andrea smiles._ _

__Miranda doesn’t know what to say. Andrea pauses at one of the jackets she had finished only the week before._ _

__“Oh, can I try it on?” When Miranda doesn’t protest, Andrea pulls her sweater off and slides the jacket off the mannequin. That night in the Closet rushes back to Miranda’s mind. Andrea carefully slips into the jacket, does a little twist in front of the mirror. It is not made for her measurements. It is too tight in the shoulders and sits just a bit too high at her waist. But the plum against her dark hair, the way the cut sits against her chest, its like puzzle pieces slotting into place in front of Miranda._ _

__“It’s gorgeous Miranda.” Andrea strokes the material on her arm, something akin to admiration on her face. Miranda blushes and looks away._ _

__Andrea takes the jacket off and hangs it back on the mannequin._ _

__“Talk me through the rest of the collection?”_ _

__The afternoon sun starts to set as they walk around the room._ _

__Finally, Andrea asks, “When do you finish up for the day?”_ _

__Miranda surges forward, grasps Andrea’s jaw in her hand and kisses her swiftly. Her mouth is soft against her own and as sweet as she had dreamed. Andrea gasps against her lips but quickly kisses her back._ _

__“Now.” Miranda whispers as she moves her lips to Andrea’s cheek._ _

__“Oh,” Andrea’s hand drops down and threads her fingers through Miranda’s._ _

__“Come home with me?”_ _

__They end up going up going to where Andrea’s is staying because it is closer. She is in the spare room of Lily’s apartment. The place is small, but the tall windows capture the early evening sun and its off white walls are painted gold._ _

__Andrea takes her into the spare room, shutting the door with a shy smile._ _

__Miranda spots something out the corner of her eye. She walks over to the small table that Andrea is using as a makeshift desk. Under a stack of books is a folder, and she can see her own sketch tipping out of it._ _

__It’s a collection of every drawing, photo and scribble she has sent Andrea all this time. The page folds out, again and again, until the table is almost covered by the collage of Miranda’s work. She looks back at Andrea, who is standing bashfully._ _

__“You kept them all?”_ _

__She just shrugs, her cheeks stained pink. Miranda turns back to the table, her fingers skimming over the tattered corners of the page, pin marks dotting the corners._ _

__“I usually have it up at my desk at home, or wherever I am staying.”_ _

__Miranda is overwhelmed at the thought of Andrea carrying this, her, around with her, wherever she would go._ _

__“Why?”_ _

__"I like the way you see the world.” Andrea says this like it is easy. That loving Miranda is something easy to do._ _

__Miranda steps across the room, the few paces it takes to reach her, and draws her close. She breathes Andrea in, pressing their foreheads, their hips, their thighs, together. She can hear Andrea’s heartbeat thundering along with her own. Andrea’s mouth greedily meets her own, her fingers grasping at her shoulders, her waist, her ass._ _

__Miranda pushes her hands up under Andrea’s blouse, fingernails scraping against smooth skin and delighting in the moans that escape Andrea’s throat. She presses her mouth to the column of Andrea’s neck, drawing out shivers with tongue and teeth._ _

__Andrea’s hands wrench at her dress, tearing at the fabric desperately. Reluctantly, Miranda detaches herself long enough to unzip herself. Andrea stares at her wide-eyed, and then lurches forward to help her out of the dress. She seems determine to touch every inch of her, her hands roaming along her back, spreading out across her ribs and teasing at her breasts. Miranda feels like she has been set aflame. Andrea keeps stoking the blaze, her voice is as frenzied as her hands._ _

__“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” she groans against Miranda’s mouth._ _

__“Beautiful,” is muffled against her shoulder._ _

__Her hands cup Miranda through her bra as “all I want” tumbles out of her mouth._ _

__Miranda can barely stand but she manages to still Andrea’s hurried, manic, movements._ _

__“Have you ever slept with a woman before?”_ _

__Their heavy breathing seems to echo around the room._ _

__“No. I’ve wanted to, thought about it, dream about it, but no.”_ _

__Miranda dips her fingers into the waistband of Andrea’ jeans, and then lower._ _

__“Have you dreamt about me?”_ _

__“Yes,” Andrea breathes, the sound more of a revalation, more of an answer to Andrea’s own question than Miranda’s. Her back arches, her eyes close._ _

__*_ _

__Miranda wants to spend the rest of the night studying Andrea. She has to map her skin, with eyes and mouth, discover how the nerve endings connect to Andrea’s smile, to her laughter, to her quiet hums of pleasure. She has to memorise how her chest rises and falls as she talks, every vertabrae along her spine, the low whisper of her voice._ _

__But Miranda has to drag herself out of the bed, out of their little universe. The girls will be home soon. The world continues to turn. She pulls her dress back on, uses Andrea’s bathroom to try and salvage her makeup and restore order to her hair._ _

__Andrea walks her to do the front door, their hands clinging together._ _

__“I’m meeting with a publisher here. I’ve wanted to take some time off the magazine and work on something more long form. Investigative, really getting into an issue, and they’ve made me a good offer here.”_ _

__It’s not a question. Not exactly. Andrea can write anywhere. But Miranda is in New York, and now Andrea could be here too._ _

__Andrea is not asking Miranda for advice, for any promises, for anything at all. But Miranda wants to give her everything, all of her._ _

__“You should take the offer. I’m sure New York City has enough to keep that mind of yours occupied. Stay, if you'd like," Miranda tried to keep her voice steady, which usually was not a problem. There was an undeniable tremor here. The words beginning to break under the weight of would you take all of me? Could you please?_ _

__Andrea tightens her grip on Miranda’s hands, tugs her closer._ _

__“Stay.”_ _

__*_ _

__Miranda shows the collection at a private show in New York. She will make the official launch in Paris, of course, but she had wanted to share it here first. The crowd is handpicked and any media coverage banned._ _

__She is not searching for approval or validation, but cannot deny the satisfaction in the standing ovation, in seeing the doubts dispelled, in the wonder on Nigel’s face afterwards._ _

__“You’ll give me the February spread?”_ _

__“Is that a request or an order?”_ _

__“You don’t take orders from me anymore.”_ _

__“Don’t I?”_ _

__Miranda just smiles and tells her assistant to set up a meeting at _Runway_ next week. _ _

__*_ _

_____To M_   
_For teaching me the value of hard work_   
_For showing me everything I could offer the world_   
_And for sharing with me your own_

__*_ _

__It had been a longstanding understanding that Cassidy could call at any time of the night if she could not sleep while away from home. Miranda was never one for long chats and sometimes she would just switch on the radio next to her and they would both listen together until one of the other slipped back to sleep. While Cassidy had been better lately, it was still a routine of sorts._ _

__Therefore Miranda did not get a minor heart attack when her daughter called not long after midnight. Andrea reached across Miranda and tapped the phone to answer._ _

__“Can’t sleep, dear?” Miranda mumbled in the phone’s general direction. Andrea picked it up and placed it on Miranda’s stomach and nestled back into her side._ _

__“Hey Mom, hey Andy.”_ _

__“So no one else is up at your Dad’s?”_ _

__“Nah, Tommy was really tired from the beach so he’s not even crying like usual.”_ _

__Andrea starts asking other questions about their holiday, drawing stories out of Cassidy and then telling her about her own when she can start to hear the girl’s voice begin to fade._ _

__The phone light dims and darkness settles back around them. Miranda closes her eyes again. Andrea’s voice is a soothing balm in her ears, her heartbeat a steady rhythm under her hand._ _


End file.
